


Gunpowder

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-12
Updated: 2005-08-12
Packaged: 2019-05-15 15:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14793000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: He doesn't seem to understand.





	Gunpowder

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Gunpowder**

**by: Delightfully Eccentric**

**Character(s):** Charlie, Josh  
**Pairing(s):** Charlie/Josh  
**Category(s):** Slash  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** The West Wing characters and histories aren't mine, and are used here for love, not money.  
**Summary:** He doesn't seem to understand.  


Your first impression is that he doesn't understand your language. 

You came about the messenger's job and they sent you to this guy with wilder hair than looks right on a white man, who lulls you in a frantic sort of way. He talks quickly, not rudely, packing in more information than you can process and prying out more than you can keep track of. 

An easy smile, obviously the kind he'd throw away on anyone. It'd be almost offensive; except this place is awe and you can't ignore the prickle of excitement that he'd consider you worth throwing a smile. 

Still talking, restlessly casual, it's as if he expects you to believe all this is completely normal. He doesn't seem to understand. 

"I think there's been some kind of mistake," you try again. 

He stops. You're busy thinking that isn't something he does often when you remember you don't know him at all. He tilts his head and eyes you all over and pride kicks in to straighten your back. The smile widens and crosses over with a smirk, blended admiration and power and whatever else he's made of. Dimples take over his face. Your hands clench. 

He’s making a speech about gut instinct when another man storms in, wearing heartbreaker looks and a face full of angry distortions. Josh splits his defensiveness between you, the newcomer and something less palpable. 

You look from one to the other, trying to find your bearings. It's not hard to tell more has gone on there than you'll ever find out about. Your new friend, Sam, snaps that Josh is asking if you're gay. 

You look back to Josh, but his attention is nowhere near you and he's turning up his authority. You should say something. You could make a lame crack about being twenty-one and fucking anything that moves, but you can’t say that in here. 

Anyway, Sam says you shouldn't answer, and so you never do. 

* 

When you remember that day, you remember, "I've never felt like this before," was the only thing you could say. You never had. 

You remember Josh standing beside you, just about the only thing you were aware of besides President Bartlet. You remember the crowding around Bartlet himself, and Josh being so close his elbow brushed your one and only necktie. You knew CJ was CJ and, had your heartbeat slowed for thought, could have figured out Leo was McGarry. The others were a mystery. 

The only thing that could overwhelm the awe was your need not to embarrass yourself, and you dragged your voice out from deep within when Josh gave you the nudge to speak. 

The rest floats together in your memory. All you know is that you'd never felt like that, but you have since. When you said it, Josh, smiling with more heart and less arrogance than earlier, seemed to be looking right inside you. 

"It doesn't go away," he said. 

Ten minutes ago, you told him he was right. 

"It doesn't go away," you said. He looked, showed you the same smile. It felt the same. 

You're thinking about that more than listening to Zoey's chatter when you hear Gina yell. 

The world crashes. 

Minutes masquerade as hours, and then you're racing after CJ and Sam towards Toby's cries. People are sinking to their knees but you stay up: down is too close to his body. EMTs start tearing clothing aside; you look away. Looking right inside Josh isn't all you imagined it could be. 

* 

Josh has been out of surgery for two days and it's pushing toward the wrong side of conspicuous that you haven't seen him yet. 

You’ve practically moved into the hospital. There isn’t much the President needs from you now, but he only gets impatient when he’s tired. 

Zoey's trying to make you talk about your feelings and you're treating her like shit. It's better to see him than to deal with her speculation, so you slip inside while he's sleeping. (That, and you need to know if the bullet broke his dimples.) 

You make an event of silently pulling the door shut behind you, unsure of what you're going to do once you're with him. 

You've seen death and he doesn't look like that, but the body on the bed is unrecognisable as the man who lifted you off the streets and sat you on a horse and pointed you to Camelot. 

The cough rouses him, a painful sound like nails on a blackboard in his chest. You arch forward, a protective urge overcoming awkwardness, if only for a moment. His eyes change at the sight of you; perhaps familiarity is calming. You pass him a tissue but he'd have to strain to lift his arm so you hold it to his mouth instead. 

"Okay," you mutter. He tries to speak and you wave him down. "Don't do anything alarming." You always sound calmer than you feel. You were always the best at getting your baby sister to settle. 

His mouth crinkles in a watered-down chuckle. "Where've you been?" 

If you picture more blood in his cheeks and more caffeine in his movements, it's almost him. He's looking at you in the sharp way he does when he's paying attention. They didn't blow his brains out. 

You've got to come up with an answer; you won't be able to stand it if he tells you it's not your fault. He wouldn't be the first. He might be the first to get why the idea that anyone could think it might be is so offensive, but he almost died and you don't want to take chances. 

You're not about to apologise and there's no way to say, "They didn't shoot you because of what I am; they shot you because of what they are," that doesn't sound like, "I don't care." 

You need to come up with an answer but you don't. It becomes too late. 

Josh shifts his position, seeking comfort. It doesn't work. His face is the same shade as the sheets. 

"You okay?" he asks. 

Zoey's a nice kid, a smart kid who tries hard, but she wasn't worth this. 

"This wouldn't have happened if I'd been fucking Donna." 

The fact that Josh doesn't respond lets you imagine you make sense. You lean back, a hand extended behind your neck, kneading out tension. "Maybe I should've been fucking you." 

His laugh is dutiful and dry, rasping in and choking out. It cuts at your throat. 

"Maybe next time," he says. 

You look down. The eyes he's looking up through are puffy and lined in crepe, but you can't resist a grin. His cheeks are still dimpled. 

* 

This year he's more morbid; his streak's become a slick. 

Nevertheless, you didn't think of him when you collected Dee on your lunchbreak and went to lay your flowers. You still can't afford a decent headstone. Maybe next year, if the lawyers don't clean you out. 

Mom didn't set much store by anniversaries, but you need to pluck a time from the busy world to think. And it matters to Deanna, who's far too old for her body but still crumples like the child she could have been. Once in a while you're there to see it. 

There are other things to think of today but Josh can't quite understand that. You made sure you were home for dinner but Dee had eaten already. She was at basketball practice by the time you got home, and when she got back she flew to her room to turn up the sounds of angry girls playing at being hip-hop. There's no sign of life in response to the pounding at the door - she can't be expecting anyone. That leaves one person, and that means one thing. 

The second you pause just to look is enough to satisfy him, and you've seen it all before. The smile's half-slid off his face, not sure it shouldn't be ashamed to be there. He stops shifting from one foot to the other at the sight of you. The spark in his eyes is as sorrowful as anything you've seen. 

You turn away to rouse from its dormancy in the freezer the bottle of Jagermeister kept for such purposes. (Be prepared: you're a boy scout, with bigger worries and rougher sex.) 

He's shifting from one side of his backside to the other by the time you sit down. These are the moments he doesn't know how to play with. You could be angry at the way he initiates then doesn't know what to do. As if you should know. You might be the one who keeps his cool and guides in careful steps, but as if you've got a fucking clue what to do with a man like him in a world like his. 

Splashing considerably more than a measure in a plastic cup, you throw back yours and press another upon Josh. It chills your guts then turns to a burn that's gentle and ominous by turns, and accelerates you sinking your weight towards his side of the couch. Nudging your leg against his. You are the one who keeps his cool, and if you were going to get angry, it wouldn't be over this. 

A couple of swallows and a couple of flinches in, he looks at your hand on his knee and hesitantly asks if you want to talk about your mom. A couple more and kissing is good enough. Half a dozen attempts to be a drinker and he's trembling against your body while he murmurs half of stories about his sister, the good parts never making it past his lips. They're too dry, those lips. 

It's probably wrong that you're listening and nodding and thinking this isn't going to be good tonight. You've known too many people who've suffered too much. You can't feel it all for them - not even for him. 

You decide he's had enough about an hour later than Donna would have done. You manoeuvre him down the hall more easily than Donna possibly could. His eyes clear when his head hits the pillow. He's always believed he's better at this, more fit for this than it's wise to rely upon. 

Dee turns the music up. Reverberations pass through the wall, up your leg and thud with your heart. You focus on rhythm above discomfort. It takes forever to make him come, and it's too late to talk by the morning. 

* 

It's almost surprising how unsurprised you are by his manoeuvres. 

Stopping by your desk, the end of a day that would seem long to most people, "How 'bout that drink?" 

He means an actual bar, not your place. You play along. You frown when he starts lining up shots. He plays with his glass and doesn't follow your lead when you toss one back, just watching your throat. 

"Do you ever think," one foot against the bar, fingertips flicking off the bottom of the glass, "You might want to get back with Zoey sometime?" 

You’ve always had to rely on smoke signals, but this is almost pathetic. You don’t like to think of him like that. 

You take another drink and a shaded look at his stricken smile. You know the sight of Josh in pain. 

"Yeah." You let out a long breath ending in a sigh, like expelling smoke, but that's never appealed to you. "It's crossed my mind." 

He is punctured and reinflated in the course of a second, mimicking your exhalation. He steps back from the bar and rocks on his feet. You imagine him clicking his heels together and wishing you away. 

"Yeah? 'Cause you were, you know, you were nice together." He downs his first of the night and you wait until the shudder has passed all the way through. 

You agree, "Nice." 

A few minutes nodding along to let him know you won't fight, then you nudge the conversation towards Donna’s latest ex. No, he isn’t happy with that, and turns to face the bar. You don't feel like another. He drinks up. 

It's time for you to stand back. You don't stare, watching with half an eye all night as he unravels. Maybe he's making an ass of himself in compensation. Maybe he's doing this for you. 

Dealing with him drunk in public could be as embarrassing to the administration as anything you've done, but you take care of it (a clean job, no mess). 

You tip him out of the cab and he leans back in, holding on to the roof by the tips of his fingers. You're breathing his alcohol and you pull your face back before he can do something stupid. 

"Charlie." 

You dig your elbow into his swaying side. "I'll see you at the office." His mouth hangs half-open. Nobody knows the secret to preventing Josh from saying something stupid. You add, "Hey, I might give Zoey a call." 

The wind goes out of him; he stops blowing. He rests a heavy hand on your shoulder and pats once he's found his balance. "Good. Good night, Charlie." 

You have the driver wait until you've seen him enter the building. He's framed in the doorway, looking back. 

Josh doesn't change much, no matter how hard you fuck him. 

End. 


End file.
